Life in progress


#SoCS – Leave it alone

Why do we have such a hard time leaving some things alone?

In my case, a book. Used to be if I started one, I had to finish it, no matter how boring it was or how much I disliked it. I couldn’t stop until I’d read the painful last page. But the older I get and the more books I want to read, I’m getting better at it.

In Alex’s case (he’s my son), something that hurts. If he has a scab, he’s gotta pick it. No matter how much I tell him to stop (that actually makes him do it more), or try to explain to him that he’ll make it worse and possibly the body part will fall off, he can’t leave it alone. He’s covered in scars from tiny scratches that he turned into major wounds.

No, nothing has fallen off. Yet. And maybe the fact that I tell him it might and it never does is why he never believes me and, thus, never stops picking. Unfortunately, I can’t cut off any of his body parts while he’s asleep just to show him I’m right (he’ll wake up if I do and then the whole experiment will be ruined), so instead I’m stuck with a kid with scars. And I have to watch him make himself bleed, which might actually be more painful for me than it is for him … If it hurt him that much, he wouldn’t do it. Right?

I’m rambling.

I’m just going to leave this here.

Here are some leaves.

baby maple leaves

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SoCS badge by Pamela, at



There are some things I just can’t help. Eating the last few nuts in the tin even if I don’t want them, straightening out a crooked picture on the wall, … writing a blog post even when I’m too tired to write a blog post…

It’s been a hell of a few days, and the next three aren’t going to be any better. Last week I had two days off (meaning the kids’ dad picked them up after dinner one day and brought them back after dinner two days later) but the one in I should have had a full day off had an appointment for Alex smack-dab in the middle that only I could take him to, so I didn’t really get a day off at all. August was the last time I had one of those. All this to say that I don’t have the energy to write … anything, really. I suppose this is what being a writer is. Compulsion.

Unfortunately for all of you, it means listening to me whine about how tired I am. So here’s a consolation. A pretty picture. (Hunts for picture.) Ah, here’s one from the spring:


and look at that – it’s not even straight

What are you compelled to do, no matter what? It’s okay, go on. Admit it. We won’t judge.